


Come Along

by Dormchi



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anger, Angst, Barebacking, Blowjobs, Bottom Sam, Fighting, First Time, Guilt, Kissing, M/M, Sibling Incest, Smut, Top Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-10
Updated: 2013-12-10
Packaged: 2018-01-04 06:12:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1077568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dormchi/pseuds/Dormchi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean's greatest weakness is that he can't deny his brother anything.</p><p>When he sees that white hot rage boiling beneath the surface, when every muscle in Sam’s body is painfully tense and his nostrils are flaring, Dean knows now what his little brother needs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Come Along

Dean’s greatest weakness is that he can’t deny his brother anything.

 

When he sees that white hot rage boiling beneath the surface, when every muscle in Sam’s body is painfully tense and his nostrils are flaring, Dean knows now what his little brother needs.

 

~*~

 

“You almost got yourself killed, Dean!”

 

The door to the motel room slams shut behind them.

 

Dean turns around and presses one hand to his bare chest, fingers splayed over his heart. His shirt had been the first thing to go, blood-stained, ripped, and deposited in the trash.

 

“Sammy, it warms my heart to know that you’re so worried about me,” he says flatly. The bitchface that Sam gives him is impressively bitchy, to say the least. “But I can handle a couple of douchebags trolling for a fight.”

 

“One of them pulled a gun,” Sam hisses, attitude rapidly climbing past irritated and into the territory of furious. “Let me rephrase that. The one _behind you_ pulled a gun.”

 

Sam’s temper had been getting more volatile by the day, culminating in an outburst at least once a week. Typically, they fight because of something that Dean did or didn’t do. Dean never knows that it’s coming, because Sam holds all of his shit together so well until then.

 

There is always a tipping point. Dean is usually the target when the dam breaks, and he prefers it that way.

 

But damn does it get tiring fighting with the person he loves most.

 

“I get it, I could have a .45 caliber sized hole in my head right now,” Dean admits calmly, holding his hands up in a gesture of surrender. “You saved my ass and I owe you. Go get cleaned up and then we can unwind. We’ll watch some shitty late night TV and you can angst at me over what’s left of this.” He punctuates his last few words with a couple shakes of a bottle of Jack Daniels, the last of their hunter’s helper.

 

Defusing Sam when he’s this pissed never works, but it’s not for lack of trying on Dean’s part.

 

Before he realizes what’s happening, Dean is standing nearly chest to chest with Sam. He’s never been alright with the few inches that separate them in height and he is always annoyed when he has to look _up_ at his baby brother.

 

Something in the back of his mind reminds him that he’s not alright with Sam being this close, either. Not for the past few years, at least.

 

“You've watched me die a couple times, Sammy,” Dean says, refusing to falter as he holds Sam’s manic gaze. “I always come back.”

 

Dean can practically see the frantic turning of the wheels in Sam’s head. When the silence stretches a little too long, he grins and claps a hand on Sam’s shoulder. The muscles tense up instantly beneath his fingers, and that makes his chest start to ache.

 

“What you need is a good fight or a good fuck,” he breathes, and his words have none of his normal cheesy grin behind them. “Always works for me.”

 

Truth be told, Dean doesn't know exactly what will help Sam, because Dean doesn't have this problem. When he’s pissed, he owns it. He doesn't punish himself for it. Not like Sam does.

 

In the pit of his stomach, Dean can sense when the first hit is coming and prepares for it. This is what Sam needs, he silently reminds himself. He’s always given Sammy what he needs. He can’t deny his little brother anything.

 

Pain blooms immediately in his jaw. He stumbles backwards and lands ungracefully against the wall of the motel room with a hard _thump_. For a few seconds, Dean can’t see anything and he wonders if he smacked his head.

 

Sam grabs Dean’s shoulders and hauls him closer.

 

“You don’t care about anybody but yourself,” Sam says through clenched teeth, one hand gripping the back of Dean’s neck painfully tight, the other digging into Dean’s bare shoulder.

 

Dean can’t help it when he laughs. It’s dry and bitter and every bit a great big _fuck you_ without words. Sam is cutting at the part of Dean that will hurt the most and heal the slowest, and Dean is painfully aware that his little brother knows what to say to make him hurt for a long time.

 

He can feel Sam’s heavy breath ghost over his cheek, and he can see his brother’s eyes are dark with fury.

 

It’s the most inappropriate time to be reminded of how attractive his little brother is.

 

“Like I said, Sammy,” Dean laughs, smiling a little despite the pain that ignites in his face. He’s a little bit proud of how hard Sam can hit. “A good fight or a good fuck.”

 

Sam is visibly shaking, nearly _vibrating_ , and Dean steels himself for another hit.

 

Their first kiss is an angry clash of chapped lips and teeth, and Dean doesn't know who initiated it, but then there’s tongue and he doesn't care. Sam tastes like beer and ranch dressing and something distinctly _him_ , and the combination is a little gross. Still, Dean admits that his fantasies didn't do this moment justice.

 

Some treacherous part of him thinks that maybe he’s not the only depraved person that’s in love and lust with his brother.

 

“ _Sammy_ ,” he rasps as they break apart, tongue darting out to break the string of saliva that connects their lips. Their eyes meet briefly and Sam pushes him towards the bed. When the backs of Dean’s knees hit the edge of the mattress and he starts to fall, he fists his hands in Sam’s shirt and pulls his little brother down with him.

 

Their hips grind together and Dean’s cock is immediately at full attention, straining against the denim of his jeans. When Sam grinds against him again, he sees white. They’re pressed together from chest to thighs and Dean is impatient with all of the damn clothes that are in the way.

 

_When did Sam get so fucking solid everywhere?_

 

Dean slips his hands underneath Sam’s shirt, uncovering hips, chest, and shoulders for what feels like an eternity until finally Sam is bare chested on top of him. Sam tosses the shirt to the side and drags his nails down Dean’s stomach to the waist of his jeans.

 

“ _Fuck_ , Sammy.” Dean had no idea that his little brother had such talented hands, fingers deftly popping the button on Dean’s jeans and dragging them down, along with his boxer-briefs, to mid-thigh. It creates a terrible, almost painful friction, and then his cock springs free, rock hard and angry-red at the tip.

 

Maybe he hadn't been careful enough. But there were nights that he needed release and he couldn't wait, fisting his cock until he came apart with Sam’s name ghosting across his lips like a prayer. And Sam would be passed out in his own bed with his ridiculously long limbs stretched out to all corners, soft snores permeating the silence.

 

Admittedly, if Sam really had caught him in the act, this isn't the reaction or scenario he had been expecting.

 

“Dean, I…” Sam’s voice falters and he gazes uncertainly at Dean’s cock, lips kiss-swollen and eyes wide with what Dean can only assume is panic and some residual anger.

 

Dean figures the less he says, the better, but he knows that look. It’s the look that was probably written all over his face the first time he had sex with another guy. It didn't help that he’d been a dead ringer for Sam—the only reason Dean had considered it in the first place—with hazel eyes and longish brown hair and the second best puppy dog expression he’d ever seen.

 

“Roll over,” Dean says forcefully, pushing on Sam’s hips. Sam takes the hint and rolls off of Dean, bouncing a little on the mattress as he falls on to his back.

 

Dean leans over him, pausing at one sharp hipbone to bite a little harder than necessary and relishing in the startled gasp that leaves his little brother’s mouth. He rubs his nose against the trail of hair on Sam’s stomach and undoes the button on his jeans, followed by a quick tug down on the zipper.

 

“Since when do you go commando?” Dean laughs, hooking his fingers in the top of Sam’s jeans and pulling them down carefully to avoid snagging him.

 

Sam props himself up on one elbow and throws Dean the best bitchface he can muster under the circumstances, hips canting upward to help with the removal of his jeans. “Since none of your bus—ah!”

 

Dean isn’t practiced in sucking cock, but he has enthusiasm. That, and the hottest thing he’s ever seen is Sam losing his words as he watches Dean lick from base to tip. He flicks his tongue curiously over the slit, gathering his brother’s precome on his tongue.

 

Sam trembles violently and a groan escapes him before he says, “D-Dean, what are you…”

 

“Shut up.” Dean gives Sam the look, the one that implies an _or else_ , and lowers his mouth on to Sam’s cock.

 

The pain in his jaw is worth it for the sight of Sam coming undone, hands fisting the sheets and thighs trembling under Dean’s touch. He tries to remember what felt good when someone did this for him. Carefully, he snakes one arm between them and cups Sam’s balls, rolling them with his fingers as he sucks on the length of Sam’s cock.

 

Sam tries to thrust into Dean’s mouth, tries to find the means to an end, but Dean presses down on his hips with his free arm. Seconds later, he pulls away entirely. The noise that Sam makes is nearly inhuman, equal parts frustration and need.

 

“Jesus, I never imagined you being so _vocal_ ,” Dean mumbles distractedly, leaning over the edge of the bed and digging around for the bottle of lube. He plucks it from its usual spot, nestled firmly in between his socks and a rolled up copy of Busty Asian Beauties.

 

When Dean pulls himself back up to Sam, the look on his brother’s face seems torn between confusion and arousal. Dean shakes the bottle of lube briefly and raises an eyebrow, silently asking for permission.

 

Sam meets his brother’s questioning stare and runs a hand through his hair, then nods.

 

Wordlessly, Dean motions for Sam to turn over, watching intently as his brother rolls over onto all fours. He pops the top off the bottle of lube and squeezes a healthy amount over his fingers, then sets the bottle on the small of Sam’s back.

 

Sam cranes his neck to look back at Dean, shooting him a look that clearly says, ‘ _You are so not using my ass as a table.’_ All argument is lost when Dean rubs at his hole with one slick finger, Sam hanging his head and twisting the sheets uselessly in his hands.

 

Dean reaches underneath with one hand and wraps his fingers around Sam’s cock, slowly stroking as he presses one finger past the ring of muscle and slowly works it in and out. When Sam is no longer tense around one, he adds another and thumbs the head of Sam’s cock. In very few of Dean’s fantasies had he taken Sam, but there’s an unspoken need between them that drives him forward. He can’t deny his little brother anything.

 

“Fuck, _do it_ ,” Sam groans, pushing back and fucking himself on Dean’s fingers, skin flushed and sweaty and beautifully illuminated under the cheap lights of the motel room.

 

Never one to need to be asked twice, Dean pulls his fingers out and snatches up the bottle of lube from Sam’s back. He pours a liberal amount into his hand and hisses at the coolness of it as he coats his dick. The view of Sam trembling before him and the touch of his hand are nearly enough to make him come right here.

 

“Goddamn,” Dean says, and it’s the most eloquent thing he can think of before he presses the head of his cock against Sam’s wet, stretched hole. He lays his hands on Sam’s hips, fingers finding his hipbones and tightening their grip.

 

With one steady push, he slides into Sam. It’s slow and languid and not at all like the hard, love-‘em-and-leave-‘em fucks that he’s used to, but it’s perfect because it’s Sam. It takes several long, painful moments for Dean to fully seat himself inside Sam, and he stops completely when he is.

 

“Sammy?” he grunts, shaking with frayed self-restraint.

 

“Yeah, Dean?” Sam replies shakily, voice raspy and debauched.

 

Dean takes that as his cue to move, slowly pulling out and pushing his way back in. His hips find a steady rhythm, fingers digging into the Sam’s hips hard enough to bruise as he thrusts. When Sam starts pushing his hips back to meet each thrust, Dean reaches around and wraps his lube-slicked hand around Sam’s heavy cock.

 

It’s uncoordinated at best, but he strokes Sam as best he can as he thrusts. His orgasm builds in his belly and the base of his cock, muscles tensing as he comes closer to tumbling over the edge.

 

Sam tumbles first, crying out Dean’s name and a slew of expletives as he orgasms, come spurting from his length to coat Dean’s fingers and drip onto the sheets beneath them. He tightens around Dean’s cock and Dean falls over the edge shortly thereafter, his brother’s name on his lips as he pumps his release deep inside Sam.

 

Sated and exhausted, they stay motionless and silent for several moments, Dean lazily draping himself over Sam’s back.

 

“Dean?”

 

“Yeah, Sammy?”

 

“You’re heavy.”

 

Truth be told, he could stay like that forever and be perfectly happy, but Sam comes first. Dean is pointedly aware of his oversensitive cock softening and he gently pulls out, sliding out sticky and wet from inside Sam.

 

Dean sits cross-legged on the bed, trying and failing to regain his senses after quite possibly the best fuck of his life _with his little brother._ And tomorrow, he knows, there will be issues. The full weight of what he’s done hasn't sunk in yet, but he knows it takes time. Time for his mistakes to catch up with him.

 

“Get up. We’re sleeping on your bed since you made a mess out of mine,” Dean teases, grabbing Sam by the arms and pulling him to his feet. His little brother falls ungracefully into bed and pulls Dean down with him. Both of them are sweaty and disgusting, but Dean can’t bring himself to care as Sam throws an arm over him and buries his face into the space by Dean’s neck.

 

“I could have lost you today,” Sam mumbles into the crook of Dean’s neck, all of the fight gone from his voice. Dean softly hums _Hey Jude_ , something Sam can’t remember their mother doing, until Sam falls asleep.

 

~*~ 

 

It is later that night between midnight and sunrise that Dean falls to his knees and empties the contents on his stomach on to the floor. The gravity of their situation, of this _fucked up_ situation, and the heavy weight of his guilt come full circle all at once. He heaves and heaves until nothing comes up anymore, body shaking violently with the force of his repressed, noiseless sobs.

 

_That’s your little brother, Dean. You just fucked your little brother._

 

 It terrifies him how much his inner voice sounds like their father.

 

He flinches when he feels the warm press of a hand on his back, and he hates himself even more for having this kind of reaction when Sam is involved. Sam is his everything.

 

“Dean, listen to me. You didn't do…” Sam trails off, obviously trying to choose his words carefully. “I asked for this. You didn't do anything that I didn't want.”

 

It’s the flip side of Sam’s coin, the side that’s caring and calm and devoid of anger.

 

Dean’s self-hatred pours off of him in waves, and he knows that Sam wants to help.

 

“Dad will fucking kill me for this, Sammy,” Dean whispers miserably, nearly choking on the words as he sees, in his mind’s eye, his dead father walking in on them and slamming his fist again and again and again into Dean’s face until he stops breathing.

 

“Dad’s dead, Dean. And what you and I do is nobody’s business but ours.” Sam looks more concerned than ever, and Dean knows that his little brother is just trying to help, but those hazel eyes and the eyebrows knitted together above them do next to nothing to comfort him.

 

Everything about his little brother makes him want to love and be loved and feel like he’s worth something. But those are things that he doesn't deserve and will never deserve as long as he lives.

 

“Come on,” Sam sighs, wrapping his arms around Dean’s waist and pulling him to his feet. He doesn't need to tell Dean to fall into the same bed, he just does, and Sam presses himself so close that they’re sharing each breath.

 

“Sam?”

 

“Yeah, Dean?”

 

“Should we do something about the, uh…?”

 

“Shut up, Dean.”

 

Dean doesn't really sleep that night, and Sam knows it. They both stay awake until dawn, listening to the soft chorus of their beating hearts.


End file.
